


Reasonable Doubt

by Depseudemonas



Series: Dream Team AU [2]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia (past), Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Stevie ships it, dream crime, dream technology, knowledge of inception not really required
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depseudemonas/pseuds/Depseudemonas
Summary: Rhett is striking out on his own for the first time in his life, but when an unusual dreaming job forces him back together with Link, he begins to realize that maybe he doesn't know the whole story.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Series: Dream Team AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843363
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That oneshot thing lasted long, didn't it? This is a direct sequel to 'The (First) Last Job', and it's probably a good idea to read that first for full context of why Rhett is working solo at the start of this fic.

Thursday, June 8th

LA Safe House

Rhett can’t remember the last time he and Link were apart for this long. Sometimes after a job they split to lie low – they’re less recognisable alone than as a duo – but it’s never long before they’re back together again. Once, when Rhett had run afoul of a rival extraction team, he’d been stuck in a cramped New York apartment alone for a full fortnight, but he and Link had chatted on the phone. Another time, not long after Hawaii, Link and Stevie had had to flee the country for a month after a mark saw their faces when he awoke mid extraction and called the cops.

But now four weeks are just about to tick over into five, and there hasn’t been so much as a text from Link.

Rhett is taking it like a bad break up and it’s embarrassing. Or it would be, if he wasn’t so drunk that he’s no longer capable of embarrassment. 

He’s been holed up in their LA safehouse for a week, and now Stevie is there watching him being a sad old drunk on the sofa eating ice cream.

Link’s ice cream. Rhett snorts – not like he’s gonna come back and be pissed off that it’s been eaten.

"You need to sober up," Stevie says, shoving a mug of coffee into his hands. 

"Says who?" The ice cream has melted past the point of Rhett’s preferred texture and into Link's favoured soft-scoop consistency. Rhett is still eating it, and doing so out of spite if he’s completely honest with himself.

"You’re not going to fix anything this way."

"M’not trying to _fix_ anything. Let me wallow, Stevie. Maybe there’s nothing _to_ fix."

"Well, we both know that’s a lie," she says briskly, and whips the curtains open. Rhett yelps and tries to retract into himself as sunlight floods into the room.

"Drink your coffee, then go shower. _Now_."

Stevie is a little bit frightening like this. Rhett finds himself sipping his drink just to keep the peace. It’s stronger than he’d normally make it, almost thick, but she has at least been merciful enough to stir in some sweetener. 

He showers, still reluctant, but unsure of how to otherwise deal with the small blonde force of nature that has invaded his home.

 _Home._ They call it the safe house, but in the case of this particular property that’s not entirely accurate. They have five safehouses between them, scattered across the US, but two of them are more secret than the others.The LA house is known only to Rhett, Link and Stevie. It holds personal effects, treasured possessions, Rhett’s solid oak table that was his first big-cheque luxury purchase when they completed that first dreamshare job.

In the time Link has been gone, Rhett has looked for him in the Washington State house, with its bland bare walls, musty carpet and floor safe stuffed with cash; then flown down to check the ranch house in New Mexico, where he found nothing but junk mail spilling out the mailbox and dry rot in the roof. He asked a dreaming contact in New York to check for signs of life in the cramped basement apartment there, but again, not a trace.

There was one place he hadn’t checked. One more house, the one even Stevie didn’t know the precise location of. Rhett still hasn’t checked there, because he knows that if Link isn’t in North Carolina, then Link has left him for good.

There has been one small ray of light in Rhett’s search – a charge to one of their joint accounts from a gas station in Raleigh. When he looked again the next day, any record of the charge had vanished. Link is good at what he does, so Rhett hopes that him catching that slip up was deliberate on Link’s part, a little sign to show Rhett he is alive. That he hasn’t totally removed himself from Rhett’s life.

Clean and dressed, Rhett emerges from the bathroom to find that Storm Stevie has gotten stuck into clearing up the miserable mess he’s made of the living room and kitchen. There are trash bags full of takeout dishes by the door, and bottles of all-purpose cleaner on the coffee table. Rhett wordlessly plugs in the vacuum and tackles the carpet. 

If he’d known she was coming, he’d have cleaned up before, he tells himself. 

They clean in silence for two hours, until Stevie seemingly can’t bear it and puts an album on. It’s Merle, and Rhett can’t tell if she does it on purpose – when he glowers at her, she gives him a bland smirk in return that gives nothing away.

Eventually, there’s nothing left to clean.

"Go get changed," she says. "Those sweatpants look sad. Put on something decent and I’ll order some food."

Rhett doesn’t have the energy to argue, and his mouth tastes like furniture polish. He avoids looking at Link’s room as he passes by, even though the door is closed. He’s been in his own room perhaps once since he came back, and he feels out of place. 

For the first time, the sight of the closed door makes him feel more anger than guilt.

He changes slowly, catching sight of himself in the mirror and grimacing. He looks like shit, even after the shower. His eyes are bloodshot, his face flushed. He looks drunk, even though sobriety is almost upon him.

He gets dressed and stops by the bathroom to tie his hair back and scrub his face again. To his surprise, he’s starting to feel a little more human.

When he returns to the kitchen, there is pizza. He finds room for it despite the ice cream.

"I’ve found you a job," Stevie says, pointing a crust at him. "And you’re going to take it. Very simple extraction job, minimal risk. It’ll be a steal."

Rhett ignores the pun, stomach contracting at the thought of doing dreamshare without Link.

"You’re a great architect Rhett," Stevie says before he can express his doubts. "It would be a waste to stop now."

As if he could stop. There’s a saying in the business, _All dreamers are addicts_ – and it’s true. The kick Rhett gets when he creates whole forests with just a thought, smelling the loam and the scruffy redwood bark straight from his imagination, is incomparable. 

"Have you spoken to him?" he asks her.

"This one will be just you and me." The way she dances around the answer instead of giving him an outright _no_ makes him think it’s a yes.

He accepts the job (as if he’d had a choice). Stevie offers herself up as pointwoman, and Rhett is unsurprised when she does a great job, providing concise notes on the mark and leaving no nasty surprises undiscovered.

She’s thorough and efficient, but she’s not Link. They don’t squabble over minor details, and when Rhett goes to a drive-through at midnight he has to ring back to ask her order, because he’s so used to knowing what his partner wants that he forgets to check.

June 23rd

RestEZ Motel, AZ

One evening his phone rings – not his burner, but his personal cell, the one only a few people have the number for. The ID is unfamiliar, so it’s not his parents or Link’s mom, and it’s not Stevie because she’s camped out on the motel twin across the room from him, absorbed by the trashy romance novella Rhett brought along for stakeout reading.

He hesitates, but with a spike of unprecedented and spiteful resolve, he blocks the number.

 _Gonna have to try harder than that,_ _Neal_.

(He regrets it later after a few glasses of wine and unblocks it, but it’s too late – the number is inactive.)

The job goes without a single hitch, as predicted. Rhett wakes up, detaches his IV and writes down the building security code and passwords he lifted from the mind of the CEO snoring on the bed. Stevie wakes silently, and packs away the PASIV. 

They go for drinks after, then Rhett goes home alone to a cold, dark house.

When Stevie comes to him with another job offer a month later, he lets it sit a few days before replying, even though he knows he’ll take it.

  
  


September 18th

Funbowl!’s back room, CA

The job, in simple terms, is this: get a guilty man to confess to murder.

Of course, it’s never that simple. Mark Peterson is a clever man, very aware that the evidence against him is purely circumstantial and that the trial is likely to go very much in his favour.

Rhett had balked when Stevie first suggested the case. Of course, all the dreaming jobs she brought him were illegal, but Rhett had justified it to himself that he was punching up, only taking jobs that affected corporations with fat wallets and dubious ethical records of their own – but this was interfering with _justice_. 

_‘What if we put an innocent man in prison?’ he’d said._

_‘You can’t make him confess to something he didn’t do,’ Stevie reminded him. ‘You can’t plant an idea in someone's mind, you can only take whatever’s already there.’_

_‘But what about inception? I’ve heard a lot of people talking about it. Isn’t that planting an idea?’_

_‘You’ve heard a lot of people talk about it, sure – but have you heard of anyone who did it? Inception is impossible, Rhett. Everyone knows that.’_

They’re working with a team this time – a sharp-eyed extractor called Clarke, who Stevie has worked with a couple of times before, and a slightly green but very talented forger who goes by Punch. Josh has, as always, supplied the Somnacin for Stevie’s PASIV, but they don’t need him there in person. The phials of the drug are sitting on the trestle table in the centre of their base for this job – the function room attached to a crappy bowling alley that hasn’t been redecorated since the ’70s and smells like a wet ashtray.

All they need is Stevie and her dream machine … and therein lies the problem.

"I’m gonna kick Stevie’s ass when she gets here," Clarke fumes. "What a shithole!" 

Punch nods in agreement. Neither of them look to be out of their twenties, and Rhett suddenly feels ancient. 

"Where is she, anyway?" Clarke grumbles, giving Rhett an accusatory look, as if he’s hiding small blonde lesbians in his pockets and not sharing. "She was meant to be here an hour ago!"

As if on cue, Rhett’s phone rings, Stevie’s name popping up on screen.

"Hey, where are you?" He turns his back, like that will make him less aware of the eyes pinned on him.

"Sorry –" her answer sounds breathless, and Rhett is immediately concerned. 

"You okay?"

"Something came up. Family emergency."

"Everything okay? Is someone tailing you – are you in trouble?" A huge number of horrible scenarios pop into his head. "Say something if you’re in danger, uh … say ‘the key is under the mat’ if you can’t talk safely."

"Rhett, I’m fine." He can _hear_ the eyeroll. "It’s a real family emergency, I promise." A car horn beeps in the background.

‘I’m sending a replacement point, they’re already on the way." 

Great, just what he needs – a whole team of strangers for a complex job like this. If only Link was here.

Rhett hangs up, and Clarke gives him an unimpressed look.

"Hey," he says. " _I_ showed up." Maybe this is what he needs – one job with no bonds attached, no shared pasts or complicated feelings. He can hope.

Half an hour of tense quiet later, a car pulls up outside the alley, and very soon after, Rhett realises he can’t even do that.

Link’s voice is so familiar that Rhett doesn’t actually process that he shouldn’t be hearing it for a good minute, and that’s long enough for Punch to have walked the pointman into the room leaving Rhett no avenue of escape.

"This is our architect, Rhett. Rhett, this is –"

"We’ve met," Rhett says, interrupting him. He’s screaming internally, a mix of YES and NO and OH CRAP and a growing pissedoffedness that only accelerates when he sees that Link’s shoulders are hunched and anxious, but that he doesn’t look in any way _surprised_ to see Rhett there.

"Hey, Rhett."

Rhett stands up, sticking his phone into his pocket – although what he really wants to do is call Stevie back and give her a damn good talking-to.

"Y’all can find a new architect," he says firmly. "I didn’t sign up for this."

Punch looks between them like he’s wondering which of Rhett’s relatives Link killed, while Clarke lets out a frustrated groan and flings her hands up.

"So what, Stevie sent us shit-tier point as a replacement?"

"No," Rhett snaps, still reflexively defensive of Link despite it all. "He’s a great point." Because of the dim lighting he can’t tell if that makes Link blush, but he also doesn’t care.

"Then what’s the big deal?"

Rhett realises that his reputation is very close to being tarnished. Refusing to work because of personal drama probably won’t be a good look, and if he’s going to make it on his own … 

"Nothing," he says. "Forget it, it’s fine. I’m in." The look he shoots Link carries the firm message of _Don’t fuck this up for me_ – or, he hopes it does. Link gives him a tentative smile and Rhett scowls right back.

"Whatever," Clarke says. "But if this job goes tits up and either of you are to blame? Me ‘n’ Punch are taking your shares."

All in all, Rhett couldn’t have come up with a shittier start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to the FEELS this chapter! It's a day later than I said, but it's also 4k so that makes up for it, right? I'm still working on the next chapter, so the update might be a little later next time.

"Bad break up?" Punch asks.

Rhett looks up from the paper where he’s penciling in the rough layout of a dream layer. Clarke has gone outside for a smoke and Link is due back any minute – no Stevie also meant no PASIV device, so he’d called in a favour from someone local (Rhett suspects it’s Chase, but can’t confirm this because he’s made the mature decision to only communicate with Link in monosyllables unless absolutely necessary).

"What?" 

"You and Link. I could cut the tension with a knife, dude."

Rhett’s really not sure how to respond to that, because it kind of _was_ a bad break up, just not a romantic one. "We weren’t together."

"You sure about that? He’s been making eyes at you all day. Is he, like, your stalker?"

"Do they call you Punch cus you annoy folks ’til they hit you?" Rhett asks, with more than a hint of growl in his voice. 

Punch raises his hands. "Don’t talk about the Link thing. Got it."

"Haven’t you got some forging to do?"

He shrugs. "I’m all done with topside preparation. Most of my stuff happens in the dream. I can’t change my face in the real world, and I watched enough footage of this guy to get his mannerisms down on the flight over here."

Rhett has only worked with a forger once before – to be honest he finds the whole concept of it a little creepy. He imagines coming face to face with himself, only it’s someone _wearing_ his body like a costume, and just the thought makes his skin crawl. 

Like Link did, when Rhett accidentally brought the projection of him into the dream on their last job. He hasn’t thought of it like that before, and the revelation makes him reel a little with the possibilities it opens up. Maybe that’s why Link was mad. Maybe it wasn’t because Rhett was making out with him at all. Maybe –

Link clatters into the room, the PASIV tucked under one arm, and a tray of take-out cups in his hands. The welcome smell of coffee permeates the air.

"Peace offering?" He says, and the sixth sense Rhett has developed when it comes to his best friend flashes back to life from where it’s lain dormant for the last however many weeks.

He jumps to his feet and lunges – just in time, as, with a small ‘ _oops’_ , Link trips on the cheap wrinkled carpet just inside the door and instinctively goes to save the coffee, not the expensive specialised _heavy_ dreaming equipment, which _had_ been wedged into his armpit and is now on its way to the floor.

Rhett throws himself onto his knees, hands out, and breaks its fall. His face ends up somewhere near Link’s shoes, and he feels (not scalding, thank God) coffee drip onto the back of his neck.

"Oh crap!" Link says. "Are you okay?"

He’s pretty sure he has carpet burn on his knees and his fingers are aching from having a metal briefcase land on them, but he’s not sure how much guilt he wants to lay on Link just yet. "M’okay, I don’t think it broke."

"Huh? Oh, the PASIV." Link crouches down to get it just as Rhett pushes up onto his hands and knees, and suddenly their faces are super close. "Hey," he says, his voice quiet and kind of breathless.

"Coffee!" Rhett says, because it’s spilling.

"Ah, shit …" Link (finally) sets the drinks down on the floor, next to the spreading dark stain. "I’m not gonna get the deposit back for this place, am I?"

Rhett thinks about the peeling walls, the damp-marked ceiling and the stale tobacco smell.

"You paid a deposit for this place?"

"Well, Stevie said she did."

"She’s gotta be scamming you. Besides, I don’t think they’d notice, what with all the other stains." 

Link’s laugh is … well, he’s missed it, okay? And months without it means he’s lost his resistance to how good it sounds, and how good it _feels_ when Link is laughing at something Rhett said, and that’s why the wave of emotion washes over him and affects him as much as it does.

Also, Link’s eyes are _so blue_.

Punch coughs. "I’mma … go see where Clarke got to." If Rhett wasn’t caught in some snare of him and Link staring at each other, he would have chuckled at the way Punch looks like he’s running away.

"Hey," Link says.

"You already said that."

"Oh." Link wobbles a bit, balanced awkwardly in his crouch, like a physical manifestation of his indecision. "I, uh … can I hug you, Rhett? I know we need to talk, but I really …"

"Sure," Rhett says. "I’ll allow it." He doesn’t have to hug back, he reminds himself, despite knowing he won’t be able to help it – and when Link’s long arms wrap around him he doesn’t hesitate in squeezing back.

"Stevie, you sneaky bitch," he mutters, holding Link tighter than he’s ever held anyone in his life.

"I know, right?" Link says, and Rhett doesn’t comment on the crack in his voice. 

"But we wouldn’t have her any other way."

Link’s right, they do need to talk – but first, they have a job to do.

"We’ll meet at the house after this job, okay?" Rhett says, his back clicking stiffly as he hauls himself to his feet. "Then we’ll talk." _If you show up_.

Link nods. Rhett grabs his sketchbook from the table and feels Link’s focus snap into work mode.

"Walk me through it?" Now they’re talking about the job and not feelings, any tentative note in his voice is gone. Rhett gives himself a mental shake, and follows.

"Okay, so Clarke thought making the first level a police station would be too on the nose …"

Link skims the notes scribbled around the map. "And making it the old lady’s hospital room _isn’t_?"

"Not _her_ room – the mark’s."

"But the mark isn’t – oh." Link pointed a finger at him. "You’re _Christmas Carolling_ him!"

Rhett grins. "He gets it! I figure the only time this guy would ever confess to offing her would be on his deathbed – so why not bring it to him in the dream?"

"You just want an excuse to build bland white rooms.’" Link hip-checks him. “Lazy.”

Rhett can’t help but smile like an idiot. “Hey, you _like_ clean things, I’m just making it better for you.”

They’re pouring over the plans, heads together, when the door thuds open.

“Cute,” Clarke says, striding into the room. “Quite the jump from ‘ _I didn’t sign up for this_ ’ to becoming cuddle buddies, McLaughlin. Just make sure any making out is on your own time.’”

Rhett ignores the dig. “I’m walking him through the map of the first level.”

“How’s the design on the second level going?”

Rhett scowls, annoyance creeping back in after the temporary balm of Link’s attention. 

“I want to get this one finished first, so you all have time to learn it.” By _you all_ he mostly means Link, who will be taking on the role of the dreamer for the first level and so needs to know the layout like the back of his hand. 

“Well, you’d better hurry up.” Clarke folds her arms. Rhett doesn’t need to know her that well to see the stress in her eyes – perhaps Stevie not showing up had unnerved her more that he’d thought. 

“While you two were getting cosy, I was on the phone with my contact with the prosecutor – they’ve moved the trial date to Friday.”

“ _What_ ?” Rhett said, hearing Link echo the sentiment. “That’s not enough time!” The trial was meant to be the following _week_ , not in _three days_.

“Our only chance to get in a room alone with Peterson will be tomorrow night,” Clarke said. She hauls the PASIV case off the table. “So, show us what you’ve got so far, and we’ll make it work.”

September 19th

Dreaming practice run – first level, hospital room.

After a full night’s work, Link has bags under his eyes, but the first level looks perfect: the hospital room is starkly lit, but small enough to be claustrophobic. While the room is of Rhett’s design, the proportions and layout following his sketches to the letter, there are undeniable traces of Link in the details – Rhett recognises the curtains, wall fittings and oxygen pipes as those from Link’s stay in the Watauga medical centre after his snowboarding accident. A sticker urging caution about the water temperature is drawn straight out of the GP’s office back in Buies Creek.

Clarke makes a more convincing doctor than Rhett had been expecting, but what is truly impressive is Punch’s impression of Eliza Petersen – the mark’s youngest daughter and, supposedly, their ace in the hole.

“Dad would do anything for me,” Punch says, smiling up at Rhett from his new petite height, all strawberry blonde curls and dimpled round cheeks and a little too much perfume. In real life, Eliza believes her father is innocent – but in the dream, she’d know what he’s done to her dear grandmother.

Clarke kneels down, reaching under the bed and retrieving the PASIV that Link has dreamed into existence, and Rhett only feels his nerves grow.

Link bumps up against him, a hand brushing Rhett’s hip in a way that could be accidental but isn’t.

“It’ll be fine,” he says quietly.

“I know.” It comes out a little short, snippier than Rhett had intended. The accelerated timeline is still worrying him, and now the change of plans means that he's got to be the second level dreamer, he’s feeling the pressure even more. If anything goes wrong down there, it's on him.

Link’s casual touch shifts to fingers on the back of Rhett’s hand. As point man, he’d been the one responsible for procuring the crime scene photos documenting Petersen’s house, so he’s coming down into the final level this time to check Rhett’s accuracy. When they do the job for real, it will be just Rhett, Clarke and the mark.

And for some reason, the idea is freaking Rhett out.

“We could still drop out,” Link murmurs, leaning close while Clarke unravels the IV lines and sets up the room.

Rhett has been thinking about it, but hearing the suggestion out loud strengthens his resolve to see this through. That, and Link’s use of the word _we_ . Not ‘you’ could drop out, but ‘ _we_ ’. Like he and Rhett are back to being a team. The sound of it makes his heart clench up with hope.

He shakes his head. “Nah, bo, we’re doing this.”

The nickname slips out – one he hasn’t used in so long that it feels dusty on his tongue – and he doesn't think he’s imagining the red tint that appears in Link’s cheeks.

He makes sure they’re next to each other as they plug into the PASIV, administering their respective doses of somnacin and getting as comfortable as they can on the linoleum floor.

“All set?” Clarke says, and doesn’t wait for a response before hitting the button and sending them a layer deeper into the dream. 

September 19th

Road stop motel

They have three hours before their rendezvous at the legal firm, so they all go their separate ways to nap, or eat, or whatever Clarke and Punch do to prepare for a big job. Rhett had planned to shovel down the fastest food he could find and then nap, but of course he had forgotten that Stevie had booked the room for the both of them, which now means for him _and_ Link.

It’s the first time they’ve been properly alone since they’d seen each other again, and of course, the awkwardness is back. That, and Stevie had booked the room. The double room. With the double bed.

They’ve shared a bed too many times to count over the years, but this is the first time since Link walked in on Rhett making out with a dream version of him, so Rhett is understandably concerned that, this time round, it might not go so smoothly. 

Link’s eyebrows jump up when he enters the room. He puts the PASIV down on the ugly patterned carpet. “So, you and Stevie sharing a bed these days, huh?”

“Oh come on, don’t be cute,” Rhett snaps, because he’s tired and feeling preemptively defensive – he knows that Link will never be able to wait on their promised ‘after the job’ discussion. “We both know Stevie set us up – what I’m trying to work out is how much _you_ were involved.”

Link starts to say something several times with nothing making it out, but finally he manages, “Look, you weren’t making it easy to talk to you, okay? If you wanted to sort this out long distance, you could have answered the phone.”

“So the next step is to – to _ambush_ me, in the middle of a complex job involving complete strangers?” Rhett turns away from Link, shrugging his jacket off and dumping it on the back of a chair. He’s too tired for this, and he just wants to sleep before he – 

“You could have come home, Link.”

– says something like that. Rhett definitely doesn’t want to look at Link now, doesn’t want to see what expression is on his face after Rhett’s pathetic display of squishy underbelly, the confirmation of _pining_ in his voice. 

He takes the side of the bed furthest from the door, closest to the AC, and lies facing the wall.

Behind him, the other side of the bed dips. He feels Link wriggling, hears his breathing get closer – close enough for him to hear Link whisper his name, far enough that they’re not touching.

“ _Rhett_ ,” Link says, and Rhett can’t work out what it means – if it’s a question, or a plea, something like ‘ _why are you doing this to me?_ ’

“I was keepin’ it a secret _for you_ ,” Rhett mumbled. “I knew deep down it wasn’t real, but I thought it was better than slippin’ up and saying something that made you uncomfortable. I get why you’d feel violated, and I’m sorry –”

“What?” Link says, his disbelief so strong it almost becomes a laugh. “ _Violated_ ? Rhett, I was _angry_ , man. I was _jealous_.”

Well that just doesn’t make sense. Rhett wants to turn over – staring Link in the face will make everything clear – but he’s not sure he can handle being that close.

Link’s fingers land on his upper arm, light and twitchy as a bird landing on a switch. 

“I wanna go to sleep,” Rhett mutters, but he doesn’t shake Link off. The hand retreats anyway. Then there’s the soft thump of Link’s feet on the floor, the familiar click of the latches on the metal briefcase being flipped.

“Dream with me, Rhett?” Link asks, and Rhett has never been able to refuse him that.

There’s more than enough somnacin for the extra trip under, and the way time passes slower in a dream means that he’ll have time to decompress mentally, even if they’ll still get the same amount of physical rest. Rhett preps the lines with a zombie-like familiarity, and when he slides the needle into the crook of Link’s elbow, he remembers how, when they started, Link used to go sheet-white every time. Now he barely tenses. His fingers catch Rhett's wrist as he lies down next to Link on the bed.

“See you down there.” His eyes are already closed. Rhett hits the button and lies back, and feels Link’s fingers wriggle between his own as he goes under.

Link is the dreamer, and Rhett expects to open his eyes on their rocky spit in the Cape Fear or the Raleigh safe house – Link’s usual dream locales of choice, comfortable and familiar as an old sweater. But instead, Rhett finds himself in his mom’s house, sitting at her kitchen table opposite Link. He can see through to the living room, where _Happy Days_ is playing on the TV set that Rhett hasn't seen since the late eighties. 

“What are we doing here?” Rhett asks. 

Link is about to answer when movement from the doorway makes him look away. His face brightens. “Hey, Momma Di!”

Rhett’s projection of his mom is matching Link’s dream era – looking decades younger than she does these days, sporting freshly permed hair and the sweater that he and Link had pooled money to get for her birthday.

“Hello boys,” Momma Di says. “I thought you two were upstairs? Don’t tell me y’all finished your homework already?”

Being chastised for not finishing his school work feels more than a little odd when Rhett is in his adult body, but he hops up from his seat anyway.

“Sorry Momma, we’ll get back to it.”

“Take a soda up with you.”

Link tugs his sleeve. “C’mon. Upstairs is the reason we’re here, anyhow.”

They head up to Rhett’s room, but when they get to the door, Link stops him with a hand on his arm and gestures for him to be quiet. He pushes the door slowly and they creep inside.

And there they are, era-appropriate Rhett and Link lying on their bellies, books and paper spread across the carpet.

“I don’t get why they’re still makin’ us work,” small Rhett is complaining. “They ain’t gon’ mark it before the holidays, and then we’ll be middle schoolers anyway.”

Was his accent always that strong? Rhett had to hold back a laugh – even more so when Link responded in his squeaky just-turned-ten voice to agree wholeheartedly on the unfairness of it all.

Neither boy seems to be aware of their grown selves’ presence in the room – some dream logic Rhett’s brain was cooking up, no doubt. He looks to Link, who is watching the kids with unbridled fondness and something wistful in his eyes.

“Buddy?” Rhett asks. “Why’d you bring me here? Not that it isn't nice …”

Link takes a deep breath, tugging at his own sleeve with a shaky hand. “I wanted to show you when I –” he stops, eyes flicking back to his younger self, who is scooching across the floor like an inchworm.

“Hey Rhett?” he asks when he gets close, almost whispering. ‘Can I ask you somethin’?’ He doesn’t wait for Rhett to answer, just powers on to what he wants to ask in a way that’s so reminiscent of Link now that Rhett can’t help but grin.

“Why’d you tell Cole we weren’t holdin’ hands earlier, when we were?”

“Cus he would’ve made fun of us.”

“It’s still lying, bo.”

“That’s called white lyin’, so it’s the good sort. Like when you told your mom it was Tucker who knocked the plant over instead of me, so I didn’t have to go home early. Cole would’ve laughed.”

“Oh.” Rhett feels a tightening in his chest as small Link turns his gaze on the carpet, poking at the coloured pencils until they line up properly in their tin. 

He doesn’t remember this.

“‘Sides,” little Rhett says firmly, “We’re too old to be holdin’ hands anyway. You’re meant to hold hands when you go with _girls_ , not best friends.”

Link’s pout turns into a scowl. “Well, maybe I don’t want to.”

“Don’t wanna what?”

“Maybe I don’t want to go with girls.”

This, apparently, boggles Rhett’s ten-year-old mind. 

“But you _got_ to, Link!”

Link doesn’t look at him, fingers digging into the carpet until his knuckles turn white, jaw clenched shut.

‘I don’t remember this,’ adult Rhett – _now_ Rhett – turns to Link, whose face is carefully neutral. ‘This didn’t happen, right?’

Link shrugs. “Well, it’s pretty much how _I_ remember it – and besides, those are _your_ projections acting it out, not mine. So some part of you remembers.”

“You _got_ to,” small Rhett says, sounding almost distressed. “‘Cus I’m gunna, and when I have a girlfriend you’ve got to have one too. Or we won’t hang out any more.”

Rhett … doesn’t want to remember this. He shuts his eyes tight, willing the projections away, and when he opens them again they've gone.

“You were just saying what you heard grown ups saying,” Link says, quietly. “Give it a year and I was saying the same sort of thing.” His hand finds Rhett’s, tugging gently on his fingers and sliding over his wrist to his forearms, turning him gently so they're standing face to face. Link is looking up at him.

“I just needed you to see why I never said anything,” he says. “And that I know why _you_ never said anything.” He takes a deep breath. “And I’m hoping you ain’t gonna freak out when I do this.”

And suddenly, like he’s got to do it _now_ before he changes his mind, Link bumps up on his toes and kisses Rhett. 

It’s more of a collision than a kiss, really. Link misjudges how far he has to go and the appropriate upward force required to get there, meaning he ends up mashing their faces together like he’s making two action figures kiss. 

Link’s got his eyes shut, but Rhett hasn’t, and he finds himself focusing on the wrong thing – the small furrow at the top of Link's nose, the fan of his eyelashes against the thin skin of his lower eyelid instead of their lips touching. _Kissing_ . Link is kissing him. And it’s not a – well, technically it is a dream, but _Link_ isn’t.

And if he doesn’t respond, Rhett realises, he might not get a second chance. That epiphany kicks him into action and he finally kisses back with everything he’s got – with decades of love and familiarity and missed opportunity.

He couldn’t say which of them deepens the kiss, but he knows it’s Link that ends it, a quiet “ _stop''_ into Rhett’s mouth. They part, both shaky and smiling like idiots.

“We should get some sleep,” Link says reluctantly. Rhett raises an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean. Sleep where we’re getting actual rest.” His fingers, which at some point had settled on Rhett’s hips, press in like he’s memorising the feel of it before letting go.

“My bed is a little –” But when Rhett turns to gesture, there’s a California king squished comically into the room.

“Think you can handle sharing?” Link looks mischievous. “We could top’n’tail …”

‘Get in the dang bed, Neal.’

Rhett wakes up twice – the first time still in his childhood bedroom, Link a soft, warm comma curved toward him under the thick blankets, but he has barely half a minute to bask in the sight before the timer on the PASIV in their motel room runs out.

Rhett blinks his eyes open again, this time finding himself on his back and dressed minus his jacket and shoes. Link’s fingers are threaded through his, and Rhett holds his hand back.

They don’t talk — they don’t need to, just for now. Eventually, Rhett’s phone alarm chirps.

Time to go.

Dressed, the PASIV packed away like it hasn’t been used, he catches Link with his hand on the doorknob. Rhett presses him into the cheap plasterboard with a brief but thorough kiss.

Link looks dazed, and when he tries to talk it doesn’t come out as any recognisable words (not an unusual state for him, but Rhett’s ignoring that because he’s enjoying the novelty of actually being able to kiss Link into incoherency).

“Just needed to do that for real,” he says, and they both laugh, giddy and stupid. 

(On the other side of the door, it still feels like it was a dream.)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Warning for slight detail on needles/IVs for this chapter, related to the dreaming equipment. I’ve taken some liberties with the PASIV device and how it works

Link flicks through his notes in the passenger seat of Rhett’s car on the way to the lawyer’s office. Cramming up til the last minute, Rhett thinks, just like college.

“Hey, remember the wise words of Greg?"

"I just hate a rush job," Link mutters, scowling at the folder spread open on his knees. "Always feels like I’m missing something important.” He doesn’t need to say  _ ‘Like Hawaii _ ’ for Rhett to know what he’s thinking about. Rhett takes his hand off the stick to give Link knee a reassuring  _ stop that _ pat. 

"I just don’t like the idea of you going down to the last level without me if there’s something I’m missing."

"The worst thing that could happen to me down there is getting killed by this guy and waking up back on the first level with you. If we get caught breaking into a guy’s mind – and just before he goes to trial, I might add …"

Link groans. "You’re meant to be reassuring me, not giving me more to worry about."

"That  _ was _ me being reassuring." Rhett makes the last turn into the parking lot. They’re stopping a couple of blocks from the firm, and Link has plotted their walk to avoid as many security cameras as possible. Whenever there’s one they can’t avoid, Rhett wraps his arm around Link’s shoulders and turns him for a kiss that’s conveniently away from the watching lens.

He could, he supposes, have pointed to something out of frame and given them a reason to turn that way like he normally would. But now he has options, and one of those options massively outweighs the other in terms of enjoyability.

They’re acting like teenagers, but hey – he’s making up for lost time.

"That one wasn’t a camera," Link points out breathlessly, looking dazed.

"Oops." Rhett doesn’t even attempt to sound sorry. They’re nearly at the office building now, but all he wants to do is take Link away somewhere – preferably with a bed – where they can learn the few remaining things left to know about one another.

Link prods him in the chest. 

"Stop it. I know that look." His voice is firm, but he looks amused. 

"What d’you mean?" 

"That very intense focus you get when you’re zeroing in on a new interest. Which, I’m very flattered to be one of your layers Rhett, but that's something we can both enjoy after we get this job done. Right?"

"Right," Rhett says grudgingly, because Link is being professional and he can’t argue with that. He’s correct, too, which is even more frustrating, so Rhett dutifully puts a little more space between them as they approach the steps up to the office block that houses Ellis and Watts. It has a rotating door, which automatically feels fancy to Rhett even if Link said Peterson could have afforded way better defence lawyers. 

Peterson’s cheapskate oversight, however, is their ticket in. Punch falls in step beside them as they enter the lobby, heading for the elevator. Once the three of them are inside, Link hands out visitor badges. He himself is wearing a lanyard that claims he is Charles Lamont, junior associate. 

Rhett coughs quietly. "Your fly is down,  _ Charles _ ," he says, making Link turn red and hurry to fix his pants.

With a quiet chime, the elevator stops a floor before theirs and Clarke steps inside.

"Afternoon, gentlemen." She looks more severe than normal in a suit, but standing next to her in the confined space, Rhett can see the sweat on her brow and the subtle shake in her hands. He gives her a reassuring smile and gets a sharp glare in return. Link pulls a  _ you’re in trouble _ face at him over her shoulder, and Rhett struggles not to smirk.

_ Keep it professional _ . His inner voice sounds like Stevie.

_ Hey, this is all your fault, Levine. _

They pile out on the correct floor, greeted by a corridor lined in wood-effect panelling and a short balding guy in a cheap suit. Rhett feels his heart skip a beat, all the usual pre-job nerves suddenly coming out of hiding – but this is where Link comes into his own. He steps forward, hand outstretched.

"Simon?" he says, like he’s confident in the response.

"Mr Lamont." Simon shakes his hand. Rhett relaxes – this is their man on the inside, the one whose loyalties and morals went for an (alarmingly) low price. "Good to see you – Ms Levine speaks highly of your work."

Link’s stock how-do-you-do smile morphs into something genuinely pleased. 

"Is our client ready?"

"He’s uh, taking a nap in my office. This way – second on the left," he gestures, letting Link and Punch walk ahead of him. A prickle of unease makes its way up Rhett's spine, hurrying its pace as he notes the way Simon catches Clarke’s eye, holding her gaze for a significant moment before she hurries after the others.

“Oh, you first,” Rhett says, when it’s his turn to pass. "Lead the way." All he gets is a blank stare before Simon turns and heads for his office.

Rhett brings up the rear, eyes flicking side to side.

The office is small, stuffy and crowded with the six of them inside – Simon goes automatically to sit behind his desk, and their mark is slumped over on the pleather couch. There’s a mug on the table; Rhett sees Link check how much of the tea inside remains, and if they need to administer any extra sedative. 

“We’re good,” he says. 

Punch leans down and shakes Petersen’s shoulder. "Sir?"

He doesn’t stir. Rhett takes that as his cue, and begins to unpack the PASIV on the coffee table. He glances up a few times as he does so, hoping to catch Link’s eye, but the pointman is busy shutting blinds, locking the office door and checking the timers set on his phone.

He doesn’t get a moment with Link until just before they go under; the others take charge of their own IV needles, but Link is liable to miss even the most surface level veins with his shaky hands, and/or pass out in the process. Without talking about it, they’ve both resumed their ritual – picking spots next to each other, Link untangling the soft plastic tubing and Rhett dealing with the pointy stuff. Link flinches at the cold swipe of the alcohol swab.

“Ready?” Rhett asks, but the real message is meted out in quick movements of his finger against Link’s arm; their own secret code Link came up with when they were kids. They’ve made some modifications over the years, as they generally have no need to use it to discuss snack raids and nefarious rock-throwing misadventures anymore.

_ Stay sharp _ , Rhett taps.  _ C and S up to something. _

Link shifts his hand so he can reply.  _ What about P? _

_ Unsure. Want to leave? _

Link frowns.  _ Gun? _

Rhett glances meaningfully towards the case – Link knows about the compartment hidden under the foam inlay of the lid. 

_Stay_ , Link decides. 

"Hurry up, lovebirds," Clarke calls across the room. Link rolls his eyes.

"Here we go," Rhett says, connecting Link up.

"I’ll set my timer," Link says. "It’s fine. You’ve done the sharp bit.”

Rhett always does Link’s timer, and the change of habit throws him a little, but he acquiesces. Take care down there, Neal."

"I’m hitting the button in five," Punch warns, and Rhett scrambles to get his own needle in place, checking his timer on the digital readout before lying down.

"Three."

Link is still fumbling with the keypad – Rhett pokes his thigh.

"I got it," Link hisses, as Punch reaches two, and flops down on the floor as –  _ ‘One!’ _ – they hear the familiar clunk of the button that releases the somnacin into the lines.

Dream level one: the hospital.

Between breaths, Rhett falls asleep.

He opens his eyes to a hospital storage closet. He brushes himself down – needlessly, his scrubs are spotless – and takes a moment to orient himself. He grabs the ID and clipboard Link has dreamed up for him, the notes clipped to it containing Mark Peterson’s details, mixed in with fictional reports on his terminal condition – one that runs in his family, according to Link’s research.

He checks his lanyard, choking a little when he sees the surname Link has given him.

_ Was that an intentional choice, or subconscious? _ Well, he’ll know the answer to that when Link spots his handiwork, he supposes. 

Opening the closet door, he takes in a deep breath, pleased to find the hospital smell is just as it should be: a cocktail of cleaners and antiseptic, the air sterile and dry. There’s also a hint of coffee, which Rhett hadn’t put in the notes but definitely works. Link would make a pretty good architect he thinks – not for the first time – with his attention to detail. The only issue is his perfectionism – neither the real world or dreams are perfect, after all. In Link’s hospital the floors are gleamingly clean and unscuffed, and when Rhett passes the vending machines they’re all in perfect working order and the coffee smells high-end.

He reaches Peterson’s hospital room, knocking and waiting for the okay before going inside.

"Hello, Mr Peterson," he says. "The doctor is on her way to talk to you." He’s following the agreed script, but of course Peterson has no script to follow – there are any numbers of ways this conversation could go.

Peterson smiles, but it’s interrupted by a cough. Link is perched on a chair the other side of the bed, and passes him a tissue. Eventually, the cough subsides.

"Sorry about that," Peterson says. "Mr Lamont here was just telling me about the hospices – got me a little choked up."

"Don’t apologise." Rhett doesn’t have to fake the empathy. Even though this is a dream, even though he knows the man in the bed has done something horrible, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Peterson  _ looks _ ill – and that’s a good sign. It means he’s buying into the scenario, falling under their spell (to put it in a slightly poetic way). 

"Thank you, nurse …" Peterson leans in to see Rhett’s badge. "... Neal."

"Call me Rhett." He can’t help but smile as he sees Link’s response out of the corner of his eye – he jerks slightly in his seat, and his face turns pale as he’s realised what he’s done.

_ Subconscious _ , Rhett thinks – a little gleeful, a little giddy, a little frightened.  _ He subconsciously gave me his surname. _

"Nice bit of alliteration," Peterson says. Rhett laughs, possibly a little too much.

The timer on the IV stand bleeps – Rhett’s cue.

"You’ve got a visitor today, Mr Peterson," he says. In perfect time there’s a knock on the door, and Clarke opens it to let Punch in ahead of her. Punch, who is currently in the guise of a short woman in her late twenties, eyes pink in a way that implies heavy crying not long prior, a smile plastered on top.

"Hi Dad," she says. Rhett personally thinks the sniffle is overselling it, but Punch is the one who watched hours of video from Eliza Peterson’s various social media accounts, so theoretically he knows better.

Peterson tears up at the sight of his daughter, and Link gets to his feet with a polite cough.

"I’ll give you two some time to catch up," he says, picking up his folder, and ‘Eliza’ takes his place at her father's side.

It’s all going seamlessly, just as they planned, with no sign of any underhanded dealings from Clarke – yet Rhett still can’t get the prickle of unease out from under his skin.

He busies himself drawing up medicine from vials labeled with a jumble of letters in vaguely medical-looking order (thank you, Link – let’s hope Peterson isn’t well versed in pharmaceuticals and doesn’t question Rhett dosing him with ‘axipolytrisomethingquiline’ and ‘supercaliwhatsiticin’), while Peterson and Eliza talk in low, emotional tones. Punch even starts crying, in what Rhett admits is a pretty convincing way.

_ "Dad, what did you do?" _

_ "Nothing Kiddo, I promise – I’d never hurt her." _

_ "Dad, please – we don’t have much time." _

"Excuse me, Doctor?" Peterson asks Clarke. "Could my daughter and I have a moment alone?"

Clarke nods, and Rhett holds his breath as he tries not to hurry out of the room.

_ "Crap _ !" Clarke kicks the baseboard of the corridor wall, earning her a few suspicious looks from Peterson’s projections.

" _ Doctor, _ " Link says, cautioning to remain at least slightly in character so that Peterson’s subconscious defences didn’t cotton on and attack. 

"He’s gotta suspect he’s dreaming. He’s playing us," she says in a harsh whisper.

"Or he just doesn’t want to blab in front of strangers," Rhett points out. "It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t spill on this level, anyway. We just need him feeling guilty enough that he acts out the truth in the next dream level. Worst comes to the worst and he doesn’t confess, we might find some detail the police missed, tell them what questions to ask at trial. Maybe find some new evidence."

"Or maybe he really  _ is _ innocent," Link adds, recoiling a little at the glare it earns from Clarke. 

"He has a point," Rhett says. He looks through the little meshed window in the door, seeing Peterson hugging Punch/Eliza, sniffling into her – sorry,  _ his  _ shoulder. He glances at the others, and Clarke nods. 

Rhett taps on the door. Can I get you a coffee? Tea?"

With a little prompting from Punch, the offer is accepted. 

"Just make sure you get them the right way round," Clarke says, putting a cup in each of Link’s hands. "We don’t need a sedative mix up on top of this mess."

Rhett gets the door for him, rolling his eyes sympathetically when her back is turned. Link’s lips quirk in an anxious smile for an all-too-brief moment. 

Peterson drinks his tea and Rhett plays for time, taking Peterson’s blood pressure (with a machine that reads ‘okay’, ‘high’ and ‘very high’ instead of having numerical values) as his eyelids begin to droop.

"I’m so sorry," Peterson mumbles. "Guess I need a nap."

Rhett glances at Punch, wordlessly asking  _ Did he confess _ ?

The forger shakes his head.

They wait a little longer, to make sure their target is out. Then it’s time for the familiar unpacking of the case, unspooling the lines, prepping the needles. A dream within a dream.

Rhett doesn’t need to do Link’s IV this time, because Link is playing lookout, watching over their sleeping bodies as they go one layer deeper into Peterson’s mind.

Link crouches over Rhett as he sets his timer. Don’t do anything dumb down there."

Rhett catches his hand, gives it an affectionate squeeze masquerading as a tug. "Since when do I do dumb stuff?"

"Uh, all the time."

"Well, don’t you go running off with any pretty nurses."

"I’ll try to quell the urge, though there’s this one dorky looking one that keeps catching my eye."

"Nurse Neal, huh? Yeah, he’s quite the looker." Rhett batts his eyelashes. "A little awkward with the matching last names. Sure you’re not related?

Link goes from blushing to pulling away in (mostly) mock disgust. "Gross, dude! Go to sleep."

Rhett is still chuckling as he goes under.

Dream level two: the crime scene.

Grandma Peterson’s house is dimly lit – it is a midwinter night, after all. The street lamp outside provides the light – it pours in impossibly through all the windows, slightly redder than it should be. Underfoot, the floorboards creak.

Rhett shivers. Well, this was definitely the atmosphere he was going for. He might have done it a bit  _ too _ well.

They’re gathered in the hallway, Rhett, Clarke, Punch/Eliza and Peterson, just inside the front door, beside the family reunion photo in pride of place on the dresser.

Peterson looks around them. "This is my –" his eyes flick to the calendar on the wall with one red circle around the only day that matters, the clock ticking a little too fast above it.

"Mom," he gasps. "It hasn’t happened yet, I can stop it –"

Rhett feels a sinking in his stomach as Peterson runs towards the bedroom, the seeds of doubt already there becoming a whole doubtful  _ tree _ at this point.

"Dad?" Punch runs after him. Clarke gives Rhett an indecipherable look before she follows.

Rhett designed the light levels, the humidity, the feel of this dream level. He knows it like the back of his hand after studying it so intently, but the dread he’s feeling is anything but manufactured.

From the bedroom ahead of him, he hears a grief-stricken cry.

Crap.

He hurries to catch up with the others, finding them crowded in Peterson’s mom’s small bedroom – she’d always stayed in the side room after her husband had died. 

But she doesn’t look like in the horrible crime scene photos Rhett had seen – no, she’s laid out like she’s at her funeral, hands folded neatly as she lies on her back in her Sunday best, face made up and eyes closed.

Peterson kneels at her beside, sobbing. Punch is awkwardly rubbing at his shoulder.

_ Peterson isn’t guilty _ . Rhett knows it for sure, now.  _ He doesn’t even know how the body should look in this context _ .

A hand clasps his arm, making him jump.

"Go check the gun safe," Clarke hisses at him. "He’s hiding what he knows, maybe it will be in there!”

"I don’t think we’re gonna –" 

Clarke’s fingers dig in hard.  _ "Go. Check. _ "

The safe is in what used to be a study, now just a junk room. Rhett recalls the lock code taken from the police report, punches it in.

The safe is empty, just like he knew it would be.

He hears footsteps behind him.

"Empty," he says, turning around only to find Clarke staring daggers at him. She holds something out in her hand – a pistol. 

A pistol, Rhett quickly realises, that’s the same calibre and make as the murder weapon.

"Put it in the cabinet," Clarke says.

"What?" Rhett doesn’t get what she thinks this will accomplish. "He didn’t do it, Clarke.I’m sorry, but there’s no way we’re getting that confession here. The defense is right, Peterson is innocent."

Clarke all but snarls, her face twisting in frustration. "Just put the damn gun in the safe, Rhett!"

"Look, I know it’s disappointing when a job doesn’t go in your favour," he says. "I’ve been there, but you can’t warp reality by planting evidence in a dream –"

"Oh, quit your condescending bullshit McLaughlin," Clarke snaps. "I’m not  _ disappointed _ ."

"You knew he was innocent," Rhett says flatly. 

"Fucking finally, the penny drops."

"Then why do this at all? To mess with the guy’s head? To scare him into a false confession –" Rhett’s eyes widen as a second piece of the puzzle clicks neatly into place. "You want to  _ plant _ an idea in his mind. This safe is where he keeps his secrets in the dream world and that gun is an  _ idea _ . It represents the killing … that is  _ sick _ , Clarke."

"Everyone says inception is impossible," Clarke says. "I’m about to make history. Are you going to stand in the way of history, McLaughlin?"

He waits a beat, and holds out his hand. "Give it here, then."

The pistol is heavier than it should be. He wonders if that’s some clumsy attempt at symbolism, or just that Clarke has never held a real one.

Making history isn’t what Rhett signed on for. Sure, he’s a dream criminal. Sure, he steals secrets out of people’s minds for profit. Sure, he  _ would _ download a car.

But this is something else.

He needs to warn Peterson – and Punch, unless he’s in on it too. He can’t shoot Clarke, or she’ll wake up in a room with their unconscious bodies.

There’s only one option he can think of in the current situation.

He throws the gun into the far corner of the junk room, where it lands amongst the boxes of tat with a clatter of falling cassette tapes and broken crockery.

He instantly realises that this is the least well-thought-out move he’s ever made, and the point is driven home when Clarke gives a disbelieving laugh. Her hand goes to her hip, to the holster there, from which she produces an identical weapon.

"We’re dreaming, you idiot." She points the gun at her own head. "Now, do what I say, or I’ll shoot myself awake and go straight after your boyfriend with the real deal. Got it? Get on your knees, hands where I can see ’em."

He’s pretty sure she’s bluffing, pretty sure she won’t throw away her chance at inception when she’s this close by quitting early, but Link’s life isn’t something he’s willing to bet on, so Rhett –

– Rhett wakes with a gasp back in the lawyer’s office.

_ What the crap? _ His time has gone off too early, surely? Something must have woken him – something with enough force to jolt him out despite the somnacin in his system.

The  _ something  _ makes itself apparent as a foot catches his side, another narrowly missing his head.

He recognises it as Link’s shoe, his own face looking back at him in shock from the scuffed patent leather, before the foot is gone, whisked away as Simon drags Link to the ground.

From the chaos of papers and spilled coffee, the two of them have been at it for a couple of minutes. And, Rhett reckons,Simon has no idea he’s awake yet. He hears Link make a winded noise as he takes a knobbly knee to the stomach, and swears that  _ that  _ is about to change. He stealthily tugs the IV out, only wincing a little. A glance to the other side of the coffee table shows that Clarke hasn’t made good on her threat – she’s still out cold.

The nearest thing to him is the PASIV, but disturbing that is a bad idea unless he wants to wake everyone up, so he grabs the second largest object within reach, which happens to be an oversized coffee table hardback on carnivorous plants.

He’s sure that, in the future, whenever he retells this particular adventure, he’ll say that he says something funny – probably a pun – as he hits the guy over the head.

And honestly, he can’t be sure he doesn’t – although if he says anything it’s likely to be just a rage-fueled cuss word – because he smacks hard through a red mist of anger, knocking Simon to the side, out cold, and freeing his grip on Link’s neck.

"Link, you okay?" Rhett tries not to sound panicked, made easier from the way Link immediately starts flailing on his back like an upturned creek turtle. Rhett grabs his hand and helps him right himself.

"M’fine," Link huffs. "He had a weak grip, and his hands sweat worse than yours."

Rhett doesn’t say that he can already see the bruises forming on Link’s skin.

"Sorry for kicking you," Link adds.

"What?"

"To wake you up – I tried to not hit anything important."

Shit – now that Rhett is gone from the dream, he’s sure that Clarke will be waking herself up any second.

"We need to get out of here," he says. "Clarke’s gonna know that something –"

"I gave her a sedative," Link says. "Soon as I woke up. That’s why he attacked me."

"What about –"

As if he’s read Rhett’s mind, Punch jackknifes up from where he was sleeping, eyes wide and breathing sharp, "Holy crap!"

Rhett readies his carnivorous plants, just in case.

"She fucking shot me!" Punch says. "What the  _ fuck _ , man?"

"What happened?" Rhett asks.

"When you vanished she started throwing a full-on tantrum." Punch eyes Clarke’s sleeping body. "I wouldn’t be surprised if she shoots herself outta there –"

"Already sorted it," Link says. "Gave her enough of the sedative to keep her out for an hour longer than Mr Peterson. Speaking of …"

After one last check to make sure Link is steady on his feet, Rhett hurries to Peterson’s side. "I can’t wake him up, but I’ll disconnect him from the dream." He slides the cannula from his arm, pressing down with his thumb to stop any bleeding. The somnacin will leave his system quickly, blocking his connection to the other dreamers even though he’s still sleeping. "Punch, you any good at tying knots?"

"I mean, I wasn’t a boy scout, but sure."

"Tie up Simon, make sure he’s on his side. Link, you pack up the PASIV. Let's get out of here.”

They tie up Clarke for good measure. Once they’re on the move and far enough away, one of them will ring an anonymous tip in.

Punch hands Rhett his card before he leaves.

"So, this was a shitshow," he says. "But you guys were good to work with. If you wanna …?"

"We’ll see," Rhett says, grudgingly. Punch gives him a thumbs up, and peers through the office blinds before making a break for the elevator.

Rhett turns to Link. 

"Let’s go," Link says. His knuckles are stress-white around the handle of the PASIV. Rhett can already sense that they’re going to need a big wind-down period after this.

"C’mere."

Link steps forward, suspicious. 

Rhett just scoffs and pops his collar for him, hiding the reddening marks there from passing eyes. Then, because he reckons he can get away with it, he pops a kiss on Link’s forehead. "All sorted."

Link moves his mouth wordlessly. Rhett can all but see the thoughts trying to process, Link struggling to decide whether or not he should be outraged.

With a shit-eating grin, he opens the office door and holds it for him.

"Let’s go home, Neal."

***

"I can’t believe Clarke did that," Stevie says, crackly on the other end of the line. "I’ve worked with her a lot – I  _ know _ her. Not as well as you guys, but still. She’s always been on the up and up." There’s a burst of music on her end of the call.

"What was that?" Rhett asks.

"Ugh, someone just rocked up with a boombox. So much for a _ quiet _ , _ private beach _ ."

"Um, what happened to the family emergency?" Rhett asks. His fingers are tangled in Link’s hair while the other man snores, mouth open, in his lap. Fifteen minutes into the film, right on time. Some things never change. At least their safehouse couch is more comfortable than Rhett’s childhood lounge carpet.

"Well," Stevie says. "I’d say it seems to have worked out okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it folks! Hope you enjoyed it, and all the dreaming stuff made sense. I am indebted to Bowyer, as always, for editing (but mostly for changing all my single quotemarks to doubles).  
> I'll be going back to oneshots in this verse now, as it was never meant to be a chapter thing but it got away from me, holy shit.  
> Come bug me on tumblr @erry. I like GMM, weird AUs, vidya games and trees.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all liked it! [Come say hi on tumblr if you feel like it, or if the dreaming stuff was confusing.](http://erry.tumblr.com/)Next part up same time next week.  
> As always, the lovely [Bowyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer) was the beta for this fic (and also the one who stuck the idea in my brain. Bwaaarm.)


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